The fumes released when they started stripping away the masses of moss from the ground made both of them a little giddy, but an aeration charm helped avert the worst of the effects. Saleria had to stop every so often to attend to her regular duties, but that didn’t stop Aradin from working hard. The worst trouble was figuring out a way to dispose of the moss.
Most of the magic could be sucked out by the crystal-topped pruning staves . . . but that filled them up more quickly and brightly than either mage expected. It also left a thick, sticky residue in the soft green tufts. Finally, for lack of a better solution, Aradin tried burning the stuff. With Saleria’s permission, he used most of the stored energies to focus the fire and purify the fumes, burning it in a hot, bright sphere until nothing but white ash remained.
That did the trick. After a hearty lunch, and while Saleria focused on her prayer-petitions, Aradin focused on spell-raking up the moss from the underlying stones, draining the power with the spare staves, and searing the sap from the ground. More welled up as he worked, however, revealing the moss had somehow kept the stuff from seeping from the ground all the way to the topmost layers. It did prove his theory, though, that the sap-purified magic had soaked deeply into the ground over the last two hundred years.
(Enough,) Teral finally stated, when three altar platforms and paths toward the center proved to be on the edge of what Aradin could keep up with, containment-wise. (Don’t clear anything else. You need a break, and you need to go to the New Brother festival. I’ll stay and work on this mess.)
Carefully wiping the sweat from his face with his Witchcloak sleeve, since his Hortimancer gloves were stained despite their protective spells, Aradin gave in with a nod. (It’s not going as well as I’d hoped. We can wither the moss with the staves, but we need to come up with a way to burn off the sap faster than it wells up from the ground. Maybe a system of . . . of candles, of sorts . . . like an oil-lamp wick . . .)
(Enough!) Teral softened the order with a mental chuckle, and a mental hand on his Host’s shoulder. (Give over the body, youngling, and get going. You’re not the only one who can cure this problem; I do have a few ideas of my own. The sap that hasn’t yet burned has simply pooled up around the sand-packed stones, but it isn’t overflowing or going anywhere, so it isn’t an immediate threat. Let me handle it, and get yourself to the festival.)
Nodding again, Aradin turned to glance at Saleria. She was still resting on top of the—thankfully dry—moss at the center of the Bower, her hands resting palm-up on her crossed legs, the neatly penned petition papers laid out before her. Her voice had filled his ears with the steady, heartfelt recitations, invoking the holy names and aspects of Jinga and Kata which most closely aligned with each petitioned request. For all it was mental and emotional work, not physical, she had worked up a faint sheen of sweat from her fervent efforts.
He rested as he waited, leaning on the staff in his hands, until she came to an end with the current prayer. The moment she shifted forward to shift the papers into a stack to one side, he cleared his throat. Lifting her head, Saleria craned her neck, looking back over her shoulder at him. “. . . Yes?”
“I thought you should know that Teral’s kicking me out. I’m off to the festival,” he told her. “He’ll keep working on the sap-soaked problem, but this is all we can clear for now.” It wasn’t the most coherent explanation he could have given, but from her nod, she seemed to understand. Nodding himself, he carefully set the staff on a thick, dry-topped patch of moss, then pulled the folds of his cloak down over hands and face, allowing it to envelop his body.
Releasing control of his body was much like releasing control of his balance. With a mental side step to avoid Teral as the older Witch moved forward, he fell back into the Doorway, turned, and strode into the Dark. Teral took over their shared flesh, reshaping it into his own, but Aradin did not stay to watch what happened next over his mentor’s mental shoulder.
Unlike the sunlit warmth of the Grove, with its open skies, abundant greenery, and solid reality, the place between Life and the Afterlife was a cold, dark, echoing realm. Hard ground, barely seen in the gloom, scraped underfoot as he moved. A chilling mist shifted in the distance, rippling with hints of not-here and not-there. There was no clear light-source at this end of the Dark, though he could sense and half-see at the corners of his eyes the slender, silvery ribbon that bound him to his Doorway. The rest of the light illuminating his immediate vicinity came partly from Aradin himself, and partly from Brother and Sister Moons, a gift to Their long-vanished Elder Brother. It was just enough to see the barren ground, and a few lengths in any direction, but little more than that.